My Heart, My Soul
by blondearianne
Summary: Completley Leroux-based story. Yay! Christine Daee, after being pursued by a tradgedy she could not escape, returns to the Opera-house. She falls into the arms of her angel, but trial and conflict follow Erik everywhere. EC, Raoul friendly.
1. Return

_A/N: This story takes place about a year after Christine leaves Erik and gets married to Raoul, and is only based on Leroux. Hopefully, I can stick to that. Please tell me if I put in something from the movie, or other versions. This version will be mostly Raoul-friendly. Ok, here goes! _

Christine Daee walked in the bustling, warm streets of Paris. Her stems were measured and calm, but also brisk. She wore a long, green dress with a veil over it, successfully hiding her face from the world. If one had gotten close enough to her face, one could see that her blue eyes were downcast, and her whole face seemed to be cloaked in shadows. She had lost weight, and was obviously disturbed about something. Her blonde locks were tied up in an elegant fashion that one could not see behind her hat and veil. There were dark circles around her eyes that showed her lack of sleep.

She did not stray to the right or to the left, and did not stop to look at anyone. Her jaw was clenched with a kind of determination, and she avoided contact with anyone. People did not look at her, and she did not look at them.

She stopped at the steps of her destination, pausing on the tan steps. This got her some strange looks, but she did not mind. Her eyes were only for the Opera Populaire. The building had fallen into disrepair, and was obviously abandoned. She stood there for a long moment, looking at the mess that had once been the fine point of Paris. One could see her swallow and then continue on, into the ruins on the Opera house, past the arched doorway into her former domain.

Christine paused as she stood in the grand foyer that had accommodated so many rich patrons, going on their way to applaud the performance. She walked around and put her hands in the cracks of the great marble, ran her fingers delicately over the engravings and paintings that had once been a mark of the greatness and wealth of the Opera-house. They were now only empty symbols of a world that had forgotten.

She continued on, up past the grand statues and the steps to the doors she knew would catapult her into the past. There was a light tape over the doors that lead to the grand theater, which she easily lifted over herself. She opened the great portal into the theater, pausing for only a moment. It was no doubt that the great diva had many memories of this place. She, after that small pause, flung open the doors, as if she doubted her resolve to do so, and so mocked herself.

What she saw made her back up a few steps. She was standing on the balcony that overlooked the stage and all the common seats of the Opera. She could see the boxes, including the infamous Box Five, and knew well the routes to them. The place obviously had not been set foot in for a long time, and there was dust and cobwebs everywhere. But other then that, it was still the same Opera-house she left so long ago. She wondered briefly who could have lit the whole room with the soft candlelight it possessed, but the thought of common sense was driven from her mind by an overpowering sense of memory.

She saw the magnificent wood balconies and the gold and marble statues, all dull now with age and ill-keeping. Christine saw the red, velvet seats that once had held Paris' elite, all applauding her. The magnificent chandelier still sparkled with its diamonds, although it had not been lit for what seemed an eternity to her. It seemed almost impossible that the Opera-house's glory could have diminished so quickly. She had never realized how much work it had taken to keep up a grand theater like the Opera Populaire.

Christine then turned her quiet, blue-eyed gaze to the stage on which she had sung so many songs. The curtains were open, giving her a full view of the stage that had been hers. Christine was immediately plunged into memory; of Faust and Margarita, of Carlotta, and of that fateful night, when she had dared once more to exonerate and raise her plea to the heavens. _Holy angel in heaven blessed... my spirit longs with thee to rest! _

Christine now walked towards the stage, down slowly. Her lips were parted slightly, but her crystalline blue eyes were still fixed on the stage. The orchestra pit was shut now, but she could see the conductor making his gestures, directing the music which she had sang to. She could still hear the gentle strum of the instruments. She stepped up the ascending stairs to the stage. She walked forward, taking her hat and veil off in one smooth motion. The stage was devoid now of bustling attendants and backdrops; but she could still hear their noise, the gentle thrum that she had gotten used to. The seats were empty now, but she could still see the rich and elite talking in gentle voices about the latest gossip, chatting before she came on. She looked up to Box Five. The sight of it almost undid her. She could almost pretend that Erik was there, watching her...

Christine stood forward onto the stage, where she had stood as prima donna, where she had the whole world watching her. Something possessed her, and she discarded her hat, throwing it down onto the stage. She pretended that she was singing for an audience once more, and that Erik could hear her...

"_Holy angel in heaven blessed,"_ she sang slowly, the passion of the song consuming her once again as it had before. She remembered the song, and the way she had sung it, and suddenly she was the Viscomtess no more; she was Christine Daee, the diva, and the world was listening to her, hanging on her every word.

"_My soul longs with thee to rest!" _Christine threw her arms wide, the song issuing from her throat like golden wine, reverberating around the empty theater. She was half-expecting her angel to come and take her away, as he had before. But he did not, and she put her arms down, disappointed and feeling foolish. She had been performing for an audience that was not there, and was jolted back to reality.

One could see that there were tears in her eyes. They flowed gently down her cheeks, dripping down into her neck. They were not bitter tear, and they were not angry, but seemed to lament for something. It was not a kind of nostalgia, although that was some of it. It seemed as if Christine had some kind of regret for something she had done. She knelt down and cupped her head in her hands.

"Oh Erik," she sobbed. They were the first words she had spoken, and they were infused with a sense of regret, almost as if they were torn violently from her soul.

"Oh, Erik," she sobbed again. But the tears on her cheeks were starting to dry, and the look on her face was determined once again, almost angry. She stood up, and glared out into the audience, as if there was someone there with whom she possessed a great grievance.

"Erik!" she cried out into the audience. There was no answer, but instead only the fleeting echoes of her voice.

"Erik!" Christine cried out once more, this time into the stage. The look in her blue eyes was that of a flame, one that burned and smoldered with emotion.

The cries continued, the Viscomtess crying out desperately for her Erik, growing more and more angry and frantic by the minute. She cried out like an injured animal, the force of her cries growing more and more. Finally, Christine stamped her feet down on the wooden stage, the force of it making the floor shake and tremble with the force of her determination.

"Damn you, I'm not leaving!" Christine once again cried out. The oath sounded strange, coming from her innocent lips, but she meant it. The diva was obviously prepared to stay.

A voice came from the shadows that the great curtain created.

"I am here." Christine's breath caught in her throat. She had heard that voice sing to her, first as her angel of music, then as Erik. It brought back a stream of memories that battered her defenses relentlessly, until she felt raw and exposed. Then the man who was the owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows.

Erik, if it was possible, had grown to look even more like a skeleton, assuming the appearance of one half-dead. He no longer took care of his appearance; his dress-clothes were crumpled and wrinkled, and they hung off his skeletal frame barley. He still wore the black mask that she had grown used to. His eyes seemed, once again, to be great, bottomless pits that swallowed all light. Christine resented this, for if she could see his eyes, she could have discerned what he was thinking. He still looked as horrible and as monstrous of ever, and she could smell the death coming off of him. But this was Erik, and she had come here for him.

The sight of him, however, seemed too much for Christine to bear, and she managed to get five words out of her mouth before she slumped to the ground in a dead faint;

"Erik, our child is dead."


	2. A Resolution

_A/N: Okay, I posted this chapter a couple days earlier, and after reading through the review so kindly written by allegratree, I decided to take it down and edit it. But here it is again, and hopefully better this time... _

_**allegratree: **First of all, let me start out by thanking you for taking the time to write a very helpful and well thought out review. I do appreciate that, and hopefully there won't be too many errors this time around. I am sorry about the grammar. I read through it and found a wealth of mistakes. As for the 'Philippe' in the chapter... I am so embarrassed about that, and thank you for pointing that out to me. I wasn't thinking, and really do know that Philippe is _dead,_ and that had been fixed in this chapter. As for the issue with the Opera, your comments are heard. I will try to make this as correct as possible and I will work some of the things you've said into the following chapters. Thank you for pointing that out to me, as I have little knowledge of that sort of thing. Would it be possible for the Opera house to have begun a 'revamping' project, restoring the building? Christine could have come in on a day where it was not too busy, and who's to say that there were not people there, working, and that she simply did not notice them? I know it's a long-shot, really, but please bear with me. Thank you once again for your kind feedback, and hopefully you'll enjoy the edited version of the chapter. _

Raoul de Changy's eyes slowly fluttered open. He fully expected to see his wife, Christine, laying there, awake, staring at him, her eyes acknowledging his presence. That was how she had greeted him in the morning for the past three months. He had wondered if she ever slept, as she was always still awake when he went to sleep, and awake when he woke . . .

But Christine was not there. Instead, there was a note. Raoul was fully awake now. Christine always greeted him in the morning . . . He sat up, looking immediately to the clock across the room. It was nine in the morning. He groaned. The viscomte had fallen into bad habits of sleeping. He knew it was lax for a former sailor, but Raoul had taken up the habit of late nights and late mornings. He snatched the note and began reading frantically. His heart plummeted as he read. He had been hoping she simply had not wanted to wake him and had risen to get ready for the day . . . But as he read, he found that it was not so. It read,

_My Dearest Raoul, _

_You have most likely risen in a state of panic upon discerning that I was not there with you. I am so terribly sorry for any worry this may have caused you. My darling husband, you may have noticed of late that I have trouble sleeping. You have not commented yet, being the perfect gentleman to me. I regret to say it, but of late, I have discovered a huge hole in my soul and in my heart. I am not at peace, dearest. I need some time to discover something. I am sorry that I have to be vague, but I do not want you to come after me. Take heed and listen to me Raoul! As you love me, do not come after me. I must be left to discover some things on my own. If all bodes well for us, I will soon be returning to you. Trust me, Raoul, please. I know this will upset you, but please consider my wishes. You will not discover where I have gone. I love you, and hopefully will be returning to you soon. _

_-Your wife, _

_Christine Daee_

One could not describe the Viscomte's face upon seeing this. It was first as white as a sheet; twisted and contorted, first with incredulousness, then with sadness, then with rage. He had a myriad of emotions in his eyes, all twisting in a blur.

"Damn it," he muttered at last, "I should have known." Raoul had been aware of his wife's restlessness, far before 'of late.' It had started early on in their marriage, after they had left Erik in his labyrinth, far below the Paris Opera house. For a long time, Christine had sulked, not looking Raoul in the eye. Indeed, she had only seemed to love him when they had said their vows at the altar! He had left well enough alone, however. He had understood that she might need some time after all the events that had transpired at the Opera house. About three weeks after they had been married, she had suddenly left one day, after reading something in the Opera newspaper, the _Epoque_. Raoul had asked her where she was going, but she had not answered him. She had begged him, much as she did now, to trust him.

He had let her go, but not without some feelings of trepidation. He had read through the newspaper, trying to discover what it was that had made her leave. But he had found nothing. He had waited, for an entire day. He had paced restlessly around his large, empty house, waiting for his wife to come home

It was late the next day when Christine came back. Her clothes had been mussed, and she had looked a mess; but there was a sort of peace and tranquility about her that she had not possessed before. Raoul, feeling as it was his duty, had relentlessly questioned her about that day. But she did not answer any of his questions. He had grown angry, to the point where Christine cried, asking him to trust her, and telling him that now they could be at peace, as husband and wife. Raoul could refuse Christine nothing, and had accepted this, after a long while. She _did_ seem happier; there was even a glow around her that he had not seen before. It seemed as if her love for him had grown, if anything, and they had been happy for a while together.

Raoul had discovered a reason for Christine's happy glow after a couple of months. She had been feeling some strange symptoms for a long time, and so Raoul had called for a doctor, concerned about his wife's state. The doctor had reassured them, with a smile, that everything was normal, and that Christine was simply pregnant. Raoul had felt elation and joy in that moment, and he had enfolded Christine in his embrace, whispering in her ear, 'We shall have a child, Christine! Born of our love!' But Christine's face had been a terrible shade of pale. She had appeared shocked, and Raoul had wondered, even as he still did, what had been the matter with his wife.

Christine's eyes had slowly come back to life, and she had whispered, not seeing Raoul, 'Yes, a child.' She had looked him in the eyes then, and there was genuine happiness in them. 'Yes, a child,' she had repeated to reassure her husband and perhaps herself, smiling. Raoul had put aside all doubts of her, and had reached towards the future unabashedly.

But then, a terrible tragedy had happened. They had lost the baby. Raoul had been off, socializing with the elite, as was his duty to his family and his poor, dead older brother. Christine would have joined him, but the pregnancy had been proving especially difficult, causing her nausea and pounding headaches. He had waved off all the concerned questions about his wife with a nonchalant gesture of his hand, reassuring and them about his wife's then seven-month pregnant status.

Raoul would never forget the look on his servant's face when the man had approached him nervously, carefully sidestepping the rich, who looked down on him with disdain. The man had been trembling with sorrow? Regret? Fear? Raoul did not know, but as soon as he had caught sight of the man's face, he had known that there was something wrong. Something terribly wrong. The Viscomte's thoughts had immediately turned to Christine. He had excused himself to go talk to the manservant, dreading the news of tragedy that was clearly written on the man's face.

Raoul closed his eyes as he held the note that Christine had written him, enfolding it close to his chest. He remembered the man's halting words about his wife, and the child... Not hesitating, Raoul had furiously raced outside to his carriage, where he ordered the driver home. He had been taken on a wild ride throughout Paris, the driver seeing his master's concern and racing with utter and reckless abandon.

Raoul could still feel the barest strains of the pain, the pain that had wrenched his soul and torn him apart. He had come home, running straight upstairs to Christine's bedroom. He had shoved aside Christine's attendants, going over to the bed directly, although he hesitated once he reached his wife. He still remembered Christine's awful weeping. It had been the weeping that had undone him. His wife had cradled a monster in her arms, rocking over it sorrowfully. She had cuddled it, even kissing it, gently murmuring weeping words that Raoul could not make out. It was wrapped, mercifully, in a towel, so that Raoul had only seen its head. Raoul had leaned over and abruptly recoiled. The thing had looked terribly disfigured. Its monstrous state had almost reminded him of. . . but that was impossible. Erik was long gone, no longer a threat to him or Christine. Raoul had looked down on the poor baby with sorrow. No, the child had been his, simply a horrifying victim of miscarriage.

Raoul sighed as he began to fasten the clasps on his expensive shirt. Christine hadn't been the same since then. She had withdrawn into herself, hardly speaking to anyone. Often, he had caught her gazing off into the distance through a window. He had tried to be her rock; her protector, but he could not protect her from this new pain; she had taken it all on herself. It was bad; even worse than when they had returned from the Opera House. Raoul had been hurt by his child's death as well, but obviously not as bad as Christine had been injured. She had, many times, rocked herself gently, staring at things that were not there, obviously lost in a mental labyrinth.

Raoul paused and read over the note once more. He sighed as he contemplated whether to go after his straying wife. She had warned him not to go after he in the note . . . but how could he not? The Lord himself only knew what she was going through, and Christine was in a mental state that made Raoul nervous. He was not sure that even Christine knew what she was doing... after all, had she not believed that Erik was the Angel of Music for the longest time?

The Viscomte paused as he stood at the staircase's top. He sighed, running his hand unconsciously over the balustrade. Yes, he would have to go after his wife. Christine was known for being spontaneous and foolish. . . sometimes even more then Raoul. It was his duty as a husband to protect her from harm, and that was exactly what he planned to do.


	3. Memory

_A/N: __**bine - **I know! I can't _wait_ for that movie! Squeee! Jeremy Irons! Even though it is coming out in France and it will take a long time to get to the US... _

_For everyone else, here is the next chapter. Once again, it would be helpful that if you see any mistakes to point them out. Thanks! ;)_

Erik watched her. She was laying on the bed that had once belonged to his mother, her golden hair spread across her shoulders, her eyes closed and mouth open in a passive, if troubled, rest. Her beauty and innocence still took his breath away, leaving him cold and fevered at the same time. Her slumber was not uninterrupted, and she muttered words in her dreams, sometimes frowning and even crying out. But Erik did not reach out to comfort her. He could not. He trembled as he watched her. The last time he had seen her was when she had left, her crystalline, cold eyes looking on him one last time . . .

Erik sighed slowly, a tortuous release of everything he had been feeling. As he closed his eyes, losing himself to the dark of his mind, he remembered. The pain of remembering and longing was the worst part. He felt everything that he had before, and he was doomed to repeat the hopeless cycle of love, regret and loss over and over again in his mind . . .

_Christine stood before him. It had been raining outside, and she was soaked. Erik sat in the massive throne chair, not moving. He could not move, would not. He would embrace death at last as it came. He was already dead in his heart, his soul. It was only his flesh now that lingered, a ghost of the man he once was. He had slowly wasted away, dying from the lack of her love. _

"_Bury me, Christine," he whispered, turning his dead sockets towards her. If she could have seen his eyes, she would have seen the expression there, an expression full of pain and longing that betrayed his claim of being dead. _

"_Erik," her mouth parted slightly. She reached out a hand to touch him, barley. He did not shrink away from her, but his flesh trembled a little bit at her gentle caress, moving up his face, past the mask. _

"_You are not dead," she breathed. He looked on her, and the wistful expression there, of childlike amazement and hope almost made Erik cry out. But he did not. _

"_Ah, but Christine, I am. My flesh may remain, but I am thoroughly dead," Erik responded cryptically. Christine frowned, but said nothing. "So bury me," Erik continued, closing his eyes. "I shall even go over to the coffin, if you wish, Christine to spare you the effort, and lay myself in there, with Don Juan Triumphant." Even in death, the irony of the title was not lost on him, but he did not chuckle, for the dead did not laugh. _

_Christine looked Erik in the eyes, or as close as she could come to them. She grasped his hand, not caring of the cold and the smell of death. _

"_You are _not_ dead, Erik," she said, looking into his soul. Her eyes dared to transcend the gaping chasm that remained between him and all other people. She was a ray of light, piercing the darkness. He turned his dead face away from her, finding it too much for him. _

"_Bury me," he said, but his voice had lost its edge, and Christine remained unconvinced. Tears had begun to flow down his face now, his cheeks becoming wet beneath his mask. "Bury me," he continued, his angel's voice beginning to tremble and break, "For live is too much for me to bear." _

_Christine cried out then, a soft, gentle sound that took Erik's pain and made it her own. _

"_I cannot bury you," she whispered, "not after what you have done." _

_Erik turned and looked at her then. Her eyes were softly and tenderly overflowing with tears. He brushed them away carefully with the back of his hand. Christine continued on, the tears making gentle tracks across her cheeks. _

"_You have been in my mind, in my soul since I left you, Erik," Christine whispered. She swallowed convulsively and looked into his eyes once more. "I love Raoul, and yet . . . " _

_She let the sentence hang in the air like a thick blanket, obscuring everything around them. Erik found himself once again transfixed by her beauty, unable to move. He let out a harsh breath, swallowing and choking on his suppressed sobs. _

"_I gave you to the boy," he said at last. Christine moved her hand gently up to his face, where it rested on his masked, high-arched cheek. "I cannot revoke that, dear Christine. And yet . . . " Erik turned himself to her, sobbing, unable to hold in emotion anymore. "You tempt me, even dare me, Christine . . . to live! And yet, I am dead, Christine. My mind already resides in Hades, where not even an angel can save me." He groaned, clutching his head with his spindly fingers. _

"_You, Christine, dared to mingle your tears with . . . with mine!" He sobbed brokenly, like a little child. "You dared to reach out to me, to allow your soul union with mine . . . you alone have heard my Don Juan . . . " He sat up eagerly, and she could see the tears glistening in his eyes and flooding elusively beneath his mask. "But you have not come here to talk about that . . . No, my dear Christine, you have come here to allow me sleep, peace at last . . . so bury me!" The last was said with such a force and finality, such a challenge, that Christine recoiled in fear. But Erik did not move again, and Christine felt along his face with her fingers, gently caressing. _

_She suddenly ripped off his mask, and he still did not move, except for his mouth opening slightly. His yellow eyes were closed, and his face was still as ugly and deformed as she remembered it, but she did not shrink back in fear and revulsion as she had done before. She looked on him, on the half-dry tears that had left damp streaks across death's head, and she suddenly felt an overwhelming pity that exceeded all bounds and rationalities. _

_Christine slowly, gently, almost as if she was afraid, moved her mouth closer, closer to Erik. He did not move except for trembling slightly, overcome by emotion. Christine gently kissed his forehead, her tears mingling once again with his, flowing on his cheeks and into his mouth. He struggled not to move and not to cry out as she moved on further to both of his cheeks, tenderly kissing both of them. It was a moment of extreme pain and agony; it burned and soothed all at once._

_All his thoughts were swept away as Christine moved onto his mouth; closer and closer steadily, until all Erik saw was a steady white blaze. And then she kissed him. _

Erik shifted in his chair as he thought of that kiss, and of the woman who now lay before him, completely defenseless. The kiss had left him speechless . . . breathless. It had sent a powerful wave of shock through his body, and he had been amazed. Christine . . . Christine had dared to brave the storm, had dared to kiss a monster. She had dared to try to bridge the gap that stood between him and everyone else since he was born.

Erik breathed out a long, deep sigh. The kiss had rendered him speechless . . . defenseless. In all his years and experiences, he had been afraid of things, as anyone had been. But what Christine had done had shaken him to the core; it trembled the very foundations of his soul. He had once again been a child, yearning desperately for human contact; for _love_.

He gently, almost timidly moved out a long-fingered hand to stroke Christine's cheek, but pulled back when he was almost touching him. Erik could not touch her. Even after what she had dared to do, she was still an angel and he a monster in the very end, and to touch her was to shatter her.

What followed the kiss, in the Louis-Philippe room, was still emblazoned clearly in Erik's mind. He could never forget it, and it seared his soul. In those moments, when he and Christine had been locked in love's embrace, when she had tenderly caressed his face . . . It was all he had lived on in the months that Christine had left him. The Persian had been the one to get him to survive, and even that man's strong will had faded after a while. For Erik would sit, hours on end, not moving, sitting and staring, remembering Christine.

The angry accusations she had thrown at him the next morning after still rang in his head. He closed his eyes as his mind replayed them, putting him through torment once again. _Foul beast, _she shrieked once again. _You tricked me! You beguiled me into doing something that I _never_ would have done! _

Erik groaned as he remembered the hours that had followed. Christine had entered her room, slamming the door and weeping. He had pounded out his frustration, anger and loss on the great organ in the way of his _Don Juan;_ for she had inspired him to play once again. For in the moment when she had looked into his eyes and called him a beast, he knew. He knew that her heart fully and completely belonged to that little boy of a Viscomte, and that he could never have her. Whatever hope she had given him before, whatever sense of _humanity_ was wiped away.

So he had taken her back, up to the streets of Paris. She had been silent, and he felt that for her, everything was resolved between them. It was not so for Erik, and so he had stayed in his large, empty house, mourning the gain and loss of a woman who still lived.

Erik opened his eyes, looking over the figure of Christine rapidly. Yet here she was, once again! It was a miracle. Erik knew that he would have eventually wasted away to nothing without her, yet she came back to the Opera still.

_Erik, our child is dead. _A child, his mind wondered at her words. A child. He would not have wished his deformity on anyone . . . he would have to ask Christine if their child had borne his curse. But the child was dead. . . Erik fell into a melancholy mood. It did not matter any more. She was simply here to bring him news, and nothing else. The child had perished.

Erik wondered briefly what the life for the baby would have been if it had lived. Christine would have loved it no matter what, he knew. It would not have wanted to die, as Erik had . . . perhaps it would have had the normal life that Erik was robbed of . . .

But Christine began to stir, and her beauty began to come back to life. Erik sat up, but did not reach for her.

"Erik . . ." she whispered. The sound of her voice made Erik's heart swell, even though he tried to suppress it. He stared at her, his eyes carefully expressionless. He did not intend to let her break him again . . .


End file.
